


Winter on Longclough Lane

by significantowl



Category: British Actor RPF, Irish Actor RPF, Scottish Actor RPF, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Cocoa Kisses, First Kiss, Hot Chocolate, Kisses, M/M, Neighbors, Snow, Tumblr Memes, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 12:13:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which James is a very good neighbour, and Michael - and his cocoa - are irresistible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter on Longclough Lane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Written for Shayzgirl's prompt of "cocoa kisses" for a meme on tumblr. Many thanks to Capricco for saying "neighbourly snow shoveling" and consulting on all things snow! ♥

It was a particularly bad scrape of his metal snow shovel on concrete that gave James away, but by then he’d nearly made it all the way to his neighbour’s front door. He’d misjudged the angle, dug down too deep, and the resulting sound was harsh and horribly grating, reverberating up James’ spine, and apparently, straight through walls.

"Fuck, sorry about that," James said, straightening up, twisting to pop the kinks out of his back. "I was trying to be quiet and all, I know it’s not even noon yet."

Michael was a tall drink of water any day of the week, be it in his nine-to-five perfectly tailored suits, his gym wear, or his Friday night leather jacket, but right now his sleep bottoms and thermal shirt were very appealing indeed. Saturday mornings were a good time to be alive.

"You shoveled my front walk, and you’re apologising," Michael said, shaking his head. His voice was rough around the edges, a little huskier than usual, perhaps simply from sleep, but James had already been wondering if Michael might be under the weather.

No gym clothes for the past three days, no leather jacket last night, and a bag from the chemist’s yesterday afternoon. These were the sort of details every little old lady on the road would have taken in by now, too. They only sounded stalkery in James’ head because they were mixed in with thoughts about wanting to climb Michael like a tree.

"It’s partly my front walk as well," James pointed out. Their semi-detached houses shared a central wall, and indeed, part of a walkway, which split off a few feet from their respective front porches. James’ had a bit of friendly clutter: a faded plastic Santa, still greeting guests in the new year. A mat that said WELCOME. A string of jingle bells on the door handle.

Michael’s porch had a mat. It was brown. Solid, strategically dirt-coloured, brown.

Michael was still shaking his head, slowly, like James had to be seen in order to be believed. “You’d better take your boots off. I’m making cocoa.”

"Yeah? That sounds wonderful." James scraped the snow from the porch steps before he climbed them, then propped his shovel by Michael’s front door and set to work on his boots. Michael was shivering in the doorway by the time James was done, arms crossed over his chest, his thermals no match for the cold air whipping in.

James hurried through the door, closing it swiftly behind him before Michael could get ideas about going to put on something warmer. No damn need for that. He was perfect just as he was.

It was James’ first time inside in the four months he and Michael had been neighbours. The house was a mirror image of James’ in terms of floor plan, but where most of his furniture was scratched and worn, late of his grandparents’ attic, Michael’s was sleek and new and appeared to have come out of flat pack boxes.

Surely Michael could’ve used some help assembling all that? James settled down at a brand-new kitchen table with matching chairs, and quietly mourned the missed opportunities.

"Milk all right? No allergies?"

"None to milk," James said, turning in his chair as he shed his coat. It was distracting, watching Michael move around his kitchen, the soft, warm clothes clinging to his chest and legs and other places. Distracting, but still impolite to stare, even though he had some reason to think Michael might not automatically object to men looking - and in particular, might not object to James.

Did he smile at everyone the way he was smiling right now, so fiercely, openly pleased? The way he smiled when they crossed paths at the postbox or the corner shop on a sunny afternoon, and ended up standing by the road talking about motorbikes for the better part of an hour.

There was a chance, James thought, that he did not.

With the milk gently steaming in a saucepan on the stove, Michael took a mug off the drying rack and began searching the upper cabinets for another, shirt rising on his hips with the stretch of his long body. “Thanks for digging me out,” he said, that huskiness still in his voice. “Told myself I would get out there this afternoon, but…” He shrugged.

_But you don’t really feel up to it, and you don’t want to admit it._ James said, “Aye, you’re welcome. To have a good neighbour you have to be a good neighbour, my gran always says. There’s usually a casserole involved with her, but I’m not trying to get brought up on poisoning charges this week.”

Michael barked out a laugh. “Surely you’re not that bad? I thought you worked in a restaurant.”

"Bakery-café," James corrected. "Bread and I have an understanding. The rest of it… maybe I’m not so bad normally, but there are some very interesting science experiments going on in my refrigerator at the moment. Could be on the brink of some major discoveries. You’ll know, when the news crews come round."

This time a cough lurked beneath Michael’s laugh, but he stifled it well. “I look forward to giving interviews on what it’s like to live next door to your genius.”

"As you should," James said, grinning.

Michael turned back to the stove, heaping cocoa into mugs and slowly pouring in steamed milk. Long fingers curled around a spoon, stirring, and then he was placing the drink in front of James, saying, “Get your hands around that, warm them up.”

Inviting curls of steam rose from the mug, and Michael was right, the heat bleeding through to his fingers was gorgeously therapeutic. He’d not realised how cold he still was, but the first sip of chocolate was like medicine too, rich and sweet and restorative. When James opened his eyes - and oh, when had he closed them? - Michael was watching him closely, eyes dark, something pleased and possessive lurking in the corners of his lips.

A whole new warmth. James sipped again, basking, inside and out.

“Good?”

"Mmm." James lowered the mug. "I’ll steal you for the hot beverages counter at the bakery, if you’re not careful. Don’t go lettin’ yours get cold," he added, because Michael’s cocoa still sat on the table, untouched. 

Michael took an obedient, amused sip. “I’m usually good with drinks. No-one’s ever stolen me before, though. I might like it.”

"Well, then." James couldn’t stop smiling. "When you least expect it."

Michael’s next sip must have tickled his chest; he made noise deep in his throat, then another, as if trying to swallow down a cough. Which only made it more insistent, and when it broke free Michael dropped his mug and pushed away from the table, standing with his face in the crook of his arm and his back to James, shaking with the force of it.

When he turned back around, Michael was composed, although his face was flushed and his eyes a little watery. He sighed. “You’re regretting drinking something I made now, I’m sure.”

"Nah," James said, rising from the table. "You were probably more contagious before you even knew you were ill." When Michael’s eyebrows lifted, he clarified, "Gran always said that if I tried to milk an extra day or two off school."

James was drawing closer now, and Michael shook his head, wearing the same disbelieving expression he’d worn on the doorstep. “You and your gran,” he murmured, just as James stretched up and caught the corner of his mouth in a swift kiss. 

Michael’s warm hand settled on James’ jaw, thumb rubbing over his cheek. “I’ve a dilemma, now,” he said, gravelly and low. “I want to put you in a bubble and force-feed you vitamin C, but I’d also like it if you did that again.”

"Have you any orange juice?" James asked, fingers stealing over the soft skin of Michael’s neck. Some, particularly daring, slipped beneath the collar of that thermal shirt.

"I do."

"Then we have a solution," James said, pulling Michael’s head low, and claimed a smile meant just for him.


End file.
